


Spoop Omens

by KittyDorkling



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Werewolf, Crowley is a Vampire, Hallowe'en AU, I just wanted to post it on Hallowe'en you guys, M/M, Not Beta Read, and they fall in love, everything is even sillier than in canon, to be corrected and updated as soon as I can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-15 15:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyDorkling/pseuds/KittyDorkling
Summary: I SO MEANT TO HAVE THIS DONE IN TIME.  It was going to be a one-shot for Hallowe'en but y'alls would not BELIEVE the crap that's going down in my real life right now, so not only is this not finished, it is not even BETA'D.  D:I really, deeply hate posting unbeta'd fic, so I plan to update this with a more "final" version once I've written the ending - hopefully before Christmas, eh?  But I thought, since it is the season to be spoopy, I could at the very least hold out this unbaked batter of a half-mixed fic and hope some brave readers might be willing to stick a finger in and taste it......so before I take that metaphor any further, here you go.  :3





	1. Chapter 1

\---

It was 3am in St James’ park when Crowley heard the noise, a low wailing sound that cut through the quiet of the night air, over the faint sounds of drunks stumbling home, stray cats and late-night taxis in the distance. It sounded pitiful, and oddly muffled, and less spooky than it probably ought to have. Not that Crowley minded spooky. He considered himself a big spooky fan, to be honest. It pretty much came with the territory, being a Vampire and all.

For curiosity’s sake, he followed the sound through the empty park, ambling along until he spotted its source in the distance: a large, round shape so white it practically glowed in the moonlight. He couldn’t tell quite what it was, but it was jerking and twitching as if in a panic, and the noise was certainly growing louder. It might even attract the attention of a human if it carried on.

Crowley picked up his pace, and hurried forward. As he approached, the white shape resolved into the back end of the most enormous white dog, its hind legs scrabbling at the ground and spraying dirt in great fountains behind it without actually appearing to do anything useful to free it from its predicament. The front end appeared to be wedged into a bank of earth, around which could be seen various rabbit holes. 

“Hey, hey,” snapped Crowley, laying a hand on the creature’s back and speaking into its mind, since its ears were underground. “Stop that. I’m not helping you if you cover me in mud.” 

At once the dog stopped, and its tail rose from where it had been tucked low, slowly beginning to wag. It didn’t even take long to dig the beast out, between Crowley’s supernatural strength and the basic common sense required to work on on the area actually trapping the dog. The rabbit burrow had been dug into the gap between two tree roots, which was the main problem. Crowley tugged the root aside, careful not to damage it, and the dog hauled itself out like the cork from a champagne bottle, rolling over backwards several feet.

“There you go, don’t thank me,” muttered Crowley, brushing dirt from his clothes as best he could. Despite taking as much care as he could, he was pretty filthy.

The enormous dog got to its feet, blinked, and shook itself thoroughly, dirt flying through the air once more. Then it sat down, put its head on one side as it silently regarded Crowley, and put its tongue out to pant. The whole creature was perfectly white under the streaks of mud across its fur, and easily the size of a small shetland pony, much too large to be a normal dog. It looked like the white Direwolf from Game of Thrones, except notably fluffier and, if Crowley was being honest, extremely cute. There was something about the face, the wide blue eyes, and the way it looked like it was smiling at him.

However, it wasn’t his problem any more. It was clearly some fancy dog from one of the millionaires around here, there’d probably be a search party in the morning, by which time Crowley would be safely tucked up back in bed after a good long shower. He turned to head home.

There were padding footsteps following him. Quiet, but not quiet enough to escape his superhuman senses.

“Oh, no,” groaned Crowley. The dog sat back down on the path and looked up at him, looking painfully hopeful. “Go home, dog. Go on, get lost.”

The dog put its head to the other side, as if questioning, and whined softly. As soon as Crowley started moving again, it followed.

“No!” said Crowley, louder than he probably ought to have. “No, no, no! Fuck off!”

The dog’s head dropped low, and it whined again. This time, when Crowley started walking again, it slunk after him guiltily, as if it couldn’t help itself and was just waiting to be chastised. 

He turned around, and the dog pressed itself to the ground, its ears flat against its head and its blue eyes wide and pleading. 

“Fuck,” muttered Crowley. “Fuck! Look, just for now, ok? Tomorrow I’m phoning Battersea. Come on.”

The dog leapt up as if it understood every word, and bounced delightedly along at his side all the way home.

\--

He herded the animal into the wetroom of the flat as soon as they got back and shampooed it clean, since he wasn’t about to have it trek dirt around. It shook itself off all over the place, of course, making the granite tiled walls and floor sparkle like a night sky. There were plenty of clean towels, and he rubbed the beast down enough for it to be fit to let out, then got a shower himself, and changed into some pyjamas.

“I don’t have any dog food,” said Crowley to the animal. It was sitting in the hallway outside the wetroom when he emerged, which was disturbing, a great soft, pale presence in the dark, bleak confines of Crowley’s home.

Crowley reached into a kitchen cupboard and dug out a bowl, filling it with water so the dog could have a drink, at least. He set it down and the animal lapped at it in a way that looked more dutifully polite than actually thirsty.

Wandering through to the sitting room, Crowley poured himself a whiskey, and the dog followed him. He sat, observing it as he nursed his alcohol slowly. There were still a few hours ‘till daylight and he wasn’t particularly tired. The dog padded over to rest its muzzle on his leg, and Crowley’s free hand found the ruff of its fur instinctively. It was impossibly soft, and thick, and gently curled. Blue eyes gazed up at him adoringly, and for a moment Crowley wondered what it might be like to have a pet, although he quashed the thought immediately. His was no life to inflict on anyone else. 

“You’re not a normal dog, that’s for sure. Can’t call you Ghost, that’s been done. How about Angel?”

Angel thumped his tail against the floor approvingly. With a chuckle, Crowley drained off the last of his whiskey and headed for bed, only half surprised when Angel jumped up to join him and snuggled against his back. It was nice, it felt warm, the rhythmic beat of the dog’s heart and its slow snuffly breathing a strange comfort. Crowley drifted off well before dawn, and smiled in his sleep.

\--

Someone was thumping on his door, with a desperation that sounded as if it might have been going on for some time. Crowley rolled over and found himself alone but for a light dusting of white dog hair on his black silk bedsheets, and sat up, frowning. The dog must be somewhere in the flat, presumably. He could look for it later. 

“Fuck off!” he yelled. There was a brief pause in the thudding, and then it redoubled.

Snarling, Crowley fumbled for the sunglasses on his nightstand and headed out towards the hallway. He could tell from the thin line of light glowing from under the door to the room where his plants were kept that it must be broad daylight. At least Battersea Dog’s Home would be open if he telephoned now, although that hardly put him in a better temper.

He wrenched open the door, all the vilest curses he knew ready on his tongue. They died in his mouth on the instant.

“Ngk?” he managed. There was an extremely naked man standing in the corridor.

“Oh, thank goodness!” said the man hurriedly. “I’m so sorry to bother you, you see I live in the flat just across the corridor, and I’ve locked myself out, so I wondered if you could lend me some clothes so that I might go and find a locksmith, if that’s not too much trouble? Nothing fancy, and of course I shall return all of it right away! If you’d be so kind, I really would be terribly grateful.”

Crowley looked the man over. He was extremely blonde, both carpet and curtains, with a soft white fuzz across his chest and the hair of his head in a short, neat cut. His body was soft but sturdy, and he was almost as tall as Crowley, although he seemed to be stooping a bit to cup his tackle in both hands. He was also blushing furiously, which seemed understandable.

“Your lucky day,” said Crowley, allowing himself a slow smile. “I own the building. Let me just get the master key, I can let you back in myself.”

It was true. The building was only 20 years old, but many, many years before, Crowley had been born in the old shack which had once stood on the site. The land had been a good deal less valuable in those days, but times had changed, and now the income from 4 luxury flats in the centre of Mayfair kept him in more than adequate style.

All blood drained from the man’s face. “No no, you mustn’t, I can’t trouble you. Please, just some clothes?”

“It’s no trouble,” said Crowley, grinning more widely now.

“No! You can’t, I can’t, there might be someone in there!”

“Probably. That’s Mr Tyler’s place, he's retired. I’ve got to say, you don’t seem like his type.”

“I…” stammered the man, his blue eyes very wide now. “Oh dear. Oh, dear me.”

“Tell you what, I’ll give you some clothes if you answer me one question,” said Crowley, satisfied that the upper hand was securely his. “Why didn’t you just take some before you left?”

“But… that would be stealing!” exclaimed the man, then gasped in horror at himself. “That is to say, I don’t know what you mean! I’ve never seen you before in my life, I don’t understand in the slightest what you’re implying, I assure you!”

Crowley pulled the door open and ushered the man inside. “Yeah, whatever. Come in. Let’s get you dressed and I can get back to sleep.”

\--

“How long have you been a werewolf, then?” asked Crowley, digging through his wardrobe for anything likely to fit. He found some cashmere lounge trousers with a drawstring waist, and an oversized shirt from the 1980’s, along with some sliders. It would look terrible, but it would probably do, he thought, carrying them through to the sitting room.

“I’m not,” said the werewolf perched on Crowley’s sofa with a delicately placed throw pillow in his lap. “Do you mind if I open the shutters? Seems a waste to have the lights on.”

“I do mind,” said Crowley firmly, handing over the pile of clothes. “Don’t open the shutters.”

The clothes were accepted with visible gratitude, and Crowley turned away with a smirk. 

“This is terribly kind of you, I really am grateful. And you won’t tell anyone, will you? I’d get into terrible trouble.”

“With your pack?”

“Um. With my, er, colleagues. Oh, bother it all, yes, with my pack. I’m not supposed to let anyone find out! I thought I’d locked up properly, as I usually do, and then I woke up this morning in a strange bed with a handsome man and practically no recollection of the night before. I’m hopeless. You can look now, by the way.”

Crowley filed away the description of “handsome man” in his mental library, to consider later. 

“No recollection?” he asked. He didn’t know much about werewolves, and this was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in decades.

“Well, no. When I’m in… my other form, as it were, I’m not really myself. That’s why I lock myself in at home, but I must have missed something this time. I do so hope I haven’t done anything terrible.”

“I don’t think so. I found you in St. James’ with your head stuck in a rabbithole, and then you followed me home.”

“Oh,” sighed the werewolf, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Rabbits, yes. I do seem to have rather a propensity for chasing those. I don’t know why it is, but something about them is simply irresistible to my other form. So it seems you’ve rescued me twice, already! I really must thank you, Mr…?”

“Crowley,” said Crowley. He didn’t give out his name often, yet he did so this time without hesitation. “Anthony Crowley, but I mainly use my last name. And you are?”

“Azra Fell,” said Azra Fell, stroking his hands absently over the cashmere that clung to his thighs very nicely. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“You’re welcome, Azra. Is that really your name? I might just keep calling you Angel.”

Azra blushed again, to the roots of his white hair. “Perhaps I ought to be getting home?”

\--

Crowley went back to bed. He stayed there for a day or two, pondering recent events .

He flicked through the post idly. Most of it was bills and catalogues, plus a nasty little note from Dagon asking why he hadn't been in touch with his sire, Lord Beelzebub, in so long.

He stopped on a cream-coloured envelope upon which was written simply his name, in beautiful copperplate, and no address. It must have been slipped under the door while he slept. 

_“Dear Mr Crowley,_

_I wanted to thank you again for your assistance and discretion a few days ago. I would be delighted to return your belongings to you as soon as possible. May I suggest that I buy you lunch in Soho, where I work? I happen to know of a number of excellent eating establishments in the area. Please feel free to drop by my bookshop on any day you prefer._

__

__

_Yours sincerely,_

__

__

_Azra Z. Fell”_

Crowley grinned at the offer. The bookshop’s address was neatly embossed at the top of the page. He didn’t need his clothes back, and it wasn’t as if he could do lunch, but the thought was nice. He discarded the letter on his desk and went back to grimacing at the bills.

\--

The next letter came a few days later. It apologised for taking up his time and enquired as to whether the previous letter had been received. Crowley rolled his eyes and opened his laptop, googling the bookshop’s address to see if he could send an email, but the place didn’t seem to have any sort of online presence at all.

Sending a letter would require a stamp, and a stamp would require online ordering, and then he would have to actually write something, and find a postbox, and Crowley decided almost instantly that the whole ordeal would not be worth it. The mere thought made him tired again, and he went back to bed.

\--

The third letter was shorter, and sounded anxious. Crowley groaned, opened his laptop again, and ordered some postage stamps.

\--

It was just past 8 o’clock in the evening and Crowley emerged from the shower to the sound of banging on his front door again. He tucked the towel around his hips, reached for his sunglasses, and opened it still dripping wet.

“What the fuck is it now?”

“Oh,” squeaked Azra Fell, his hand still in the air, arrested in mid-thump. “Oh, should I come back later?”

“No,” snarled Crowley. “Come in, I’ll put something on. What do you want?”

Azra followed him in, wringing his hands anxiously. “I was just worried. You never replied to my letters, and every time I came to call for you there was no answer. I thought perhaps something terrible had happened.”

“Well, it hadn’t. Now you know.”

“Also I brought your clothes back. Those trousers were terribly fancy, I thought you must want them returned.”

Crowley went to the bedroom and pulled on his dressing gown. It was a thick, velvet thing with dark red satin lapels, because he was nothing if not committed to his aesthetic, and he sauntered back into the sitting room where Azra still stood, clutching a large brown paper bag with “A Z FELL BOOKSELLERS” printed on it and Crowley’s clothes poking out of the top. 

“Not really,” said Crowley, taking the bag as he walked past into the kitchen, from which he reemerged with a bottle of red wine and two glasses instead. “Drink?”

Azra’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “Well. If you’re offering, that’s very kind of you. Just the one.”

There was no point disagreeing at this stage, thought Crowley, handing over a generously filled glass. He sat on one of the black leather sofas, lounging across most of its length, and gestured for Azra to do the same. Azra sat, certainly, though as before it was more like perching, right on the very edge of the seat, and fiddled with his glass, taking gulps from it that were impressively large. Crowley said nothing, only watched as his guest grew visibly more anxious by the moment.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Azra blurted eventually. “I thought lunch might be a nice gesture, that’s all.”

“It was. I don’t do lunch, that’s all. You weren’t to know.”

“You don’t?” Azra looked confused, but was clearly too polite to ask further. “Do you, um, do other meals? Could I perhaps buy you dinner?”

As an immortal being, Crowley didn’t need food and generally couldn’t be bothered with the whole process, but at least dinner could take place after dark. He relented. Azra looked so keen, after all. 

“Sure. When were you thinking?”

The effect was immediate. Azra’s smile was radiant, and he wriggled in his seat with happiness like a puppy. “Oh, well I suppose there’s no time like the present? I came straight from the bookshop and I’d managed to work rather late, so I’m quite peckish myself. There’s a wonderful Japanese restaurant not far from here that I’ve always wanted to try, although I should mention it’s vegetarian, if that’s an issue?”

“Fine with me,” said Crowley. “If it’s not a problem for you? Werewolf, and all that.”

“No, not for me. I don’t like eating meat,” said Azra in a lower voice, as if confessing something shameful. “I used to, but ever since I became… well. I suppose I can tell you, can’t I? I’ve rather lost the taste for it. It causes all sorts of trouble, I’m sure you can imagine.”

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Crowley, intrigued. When he had been turned, he’d been a smoker, and had assumed the nicotine cravings were a permanent part of his immortal self. Unfortunately his newly heightened senses had been repelled by the stink of stale tobacco and ash that followed him around, so although it had taken the best part of half a century, he had finally managed to stamp out that addiction for good. That was when he had begun wondering about the blood.

As a vampire, he didn’t need food. If he steered clear of daylight, churches, holy water, silver, and a few other things that weren’t too hard to avoid, he couldn’t die, so it made sense that he didn’t actually need to drink blood, either. He only wanted it. God, he really, really wanted it. The smell alone was impossibly distracting, filling all of his senses until he was halfway out of his mind with need. It was a lot like smoking, he’d realised eventually. Even the first delicious taste was always tainted with regret, with resentment, with the knowledge that he would hate himself afterwards, hate how weak and disgusting he felt and how inevitable it all seemed.

Crowley had always resisted being beholden to anything. “Whoever lays his hand on me to govern me is a usurper and tyrant, and I declare him my enemy,” had been the phrase, in a book published back when he was young and still human. That included blood, to Crowley’s mind. It wasn’t going to be the boss of him even if giving it up was torture. 

It had been easily the hardest thing he’d ever attempted and several times he’d wondered if it really was going to kill him, but the thing was done now. He might never see the sun again, but he wasn’t a helpless killer any more. 

No other vampire had ever understood why he’d bothered. He didn’t tell Azra any of that, but maybe he would, one day.

“Let me get decent, then,” he said instead, and went to put on some clothes.

\--

...to be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is _fucked_. But not actually fucked. He wishes he was that kind of fucked, but no, it's the other kind. Poor Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got beta'd! THANK YOU YUBI!!!

\---

By the end of the meal, it was clear. Crowley was _fucked._

The way he had always seen things was very simple. He was a vampire, and it was crap. The only bright side was that everyone else in existence had it even worse, purely by dint of not being, well… Crowley. He was the coolest, cleverest and most stylish being in all creation, and that was the only way the world made any sense, so it had to be true. 

But now Azra Fell was pulling the rug out from under him, hard. 

It began with the way the bastard ate, eyes closed and lashes fluttering with every bite, making soft moaning noises over each mouthful until it was impossible to ignore how erotic the whole performance was. Every so often he would lift his napkin and dab at the corners of his lips, as if Crowley wasn’t staring at his mouth enough already. 

On top of that, his conversation was fascinating. Not only was he absurdly well-read, but his specialist subject was the occult and supernatural, and he wore his knowledge so lightly and charmingly that all Crowley wanted to do was set his chin upon his fist and listen until the end of time. 

Instead, he ordered another bottle of nigori sake, and another round of matcha icecream. Azra greeted their appearance as if Crowley had performed some sort of miracle, and that was weird, too. Crowley wasn’t used to praise, wasn’t used to people appearing to actually enjoy his company. 

Azra wasn’t cool, or stylish. Handsome, yes, but he looked like he was wearing a fancy-dress Professor’s costume: a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, a waistcoat, even a sodding bow-tie. When he found something funny, he giggled. When something made him happy, he wriggled in his seat. He should have been ridiculous.

Instead it was taking all Crowley’s well-practised insouciance to resist the urge to sigh dreamily. 

Fucked, beyond doubt.

Well after midnight, when the restaurant had politely but insistently closed, Crowley suggested they call a cab from his place and tried not to care when Azra refused.

“Oh, no, I won’t trouble you. My bookshop isn’t far from here and I live in the flat above it, it would hardly be worth the fare.”

“I could walk you home,” said Crowley reflexively, and Azra beamed at him as if it was the best idea he’d ever heard. 

This early in the evening the streets of London weren’t empty by any means, and the crowds grew thicker as they drew nearer to Soho. Drunks and tourists and locals meandered across the road and Crowley elbowed them out of the way as discreetly as he could, clearing a path for his Angel without hesitation. He regretted that when he found himself already on the doorstep of a dusty old bookshop barely more than ten minutes later.

Azra paused with one hand on the doorknob. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for a nightcap? I have a reasonably rare Japanese whiskey, a Yamazaki, and I’ve been saving it. I thought it might round off the evening nicely. If you’d like?”

Crowley followed him through the door with almost indecent haste.

\--

They didn’t go upstairs, not that Crowley had been expecting that kind of invitation. At the back of a bookshop that looked more like a small, dusty Victorian library was an even smaller windowless room that contained a desk, a chair, a sofa, and enough piles of books and paper to give any fire safety officer permanent anxiety. It was stuffy and cramped and the cosiest place Crowley had ever seen. It looked more like a nest than a room.

The sofa in particular was an entirely different species of furniture from the ones in Crowley’s flat. He lolled across it and the overstuffed cushions practically swallowed him whole, so that there was no way he was getting back upright in a hurry, especially not after the quantity of alcohol he had already imbibed, and the quantity he still planned to get through.

“Here you go,” said Azra cheerfully, handing him a glass of whiskey, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners, so gorgeous he was practically glowing in the gentle lamplight. Crowley took a quick swig before he could say anything stupid. It was very good whiskey.

Even after hours, the conversation never lagged, which alone made a nice change. There weren’t many topics one couldn’t exhaust after a century or so, and Crowley wasn’t sure he’d been so engaged in his entire existence. They discussed literature, and art, and dolphins, and history, and bananas, and Azra was witty and eloquent on every subject. Plus, he pulled the most bewitching faces when drunk, every emotion flittering across his face quite nakedly. 

They were getting very drunk, of that there could be no doubt. It really was very good whiskey, and Crowley’s glass kept finding itself empty far sooner than anticipated. And then Azra rose to refill them both, and stumbled over the rug, landing on his knees between Crowley’s sprawled legs. 

“Oopsie,” said Azra, looking up to meet Crowley’s gaze, his own just a little unfocused. He also didn’t seem in a hurry to get to his feet again, which was just fine with Crowley, who stared down at him, unblinking, attempting to fix the vision before him into his memory forever.

“Angel,” he said softly, before he could stop himself.

Azra Fell’s eyes fluttered shut, just as they had when he ate something delicious. He swallowed hard. It was Crowley who had done that, Crowley’s voice that made Azra feel that way.

“I do wish I could kiss you,” whispered Azra, his eyes still closed.

The words punched through Crowley like a wooden stake in the necessaries. He wanted that, too, wanted it more than anything he could remember since he’d last felt the sun on his face. Maybe he wanted it even more, since he was pretty sure there was no power on earth that would make him regret kissing Azra Fell. Except, of course, for one thing.

“We can’t,” croaked Crowley, and Azra nodded, sitting back on his heels once more.

“I know. I’d never take the risk of infecting you, my dear,” he sighed, turning away, and this time it was Crowley’s turn to nod.

“Yeah, well,” he managed. “Same to you.”

“No, I mean, because I’m… as I am. I don’t want you to become a werewolf.”

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “I don’t want you to become a vampire, either. Trust me, it’s shit.”

Azra blinked up at him, his mouth falling open in astonishment. For an intelligent man, he looked remarkably stupid in that moment. 

“A what?” he said faintly.

Crowley sighed. It was about time, and they were probably drunk enough. He took off his glasses. 

“A vampire, Angel.”

It was hard to say what response he’d anticipated, but it probably wasn’t the delighted gasp and look of awe on Azra’s face as he stretched upwards to cup Crowley’s face in one hand. 

“Goodness, how beautiful!” he exclaimed, gazing with something like adoration into Crowley’s snake eyes. “No wonder I felt I could trust you somehow. We have more in common than I knew, dear Crowley. Oh, I say, can you turn into a bat?”

“Be a bloody massive bat,” muttered Crowley, caught in his gaze, still reeling from the suggestion that he might be trustworthy or, for that matter, that his eyes were beautiful. 

“I suppose,” said Azra, just a shade disappointed, so that Crowley had to explain. Gently he removed Azra’s hand from his face. Some things were too dangerous to play with.

“Not a bat, no. It varies person to person, I don’t know why, although I do know one prick who’s a giant toad, that’s a good one. You can probably guess mine. From these.” He gestured at his eyes.

“Yes…” agreed Azra. “Of course. Yes.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yes, of course! You’re a, um. You must be a. Um. Yes. You know. An, um, yes. Oh dear, do forgive me, but what are you?”

“I’m a ssnake!” hissed Crowley in outrage, relinquishing control of his animal aspect just a little, enough for the yellow of his iris to spread over his eyes and his teeth to sharpen slightly, the tongue that flickered past them forked just at the tip. “What else am I going to be, an aardvark?”

“I didn’t want to guess wrong! You might have been some sort of lizard, it isn't as if I know anything about reptiles!” snapped Azra, a fraction angrier than Crowley had expected. 

That was a good point, which was irritating, and the way that Azra’s sudden flash of temper suited him was even worse. Not kissing him was getting more challenging by the moment. 

“You want to see?” asked Crowley, and didn’t bother waiting for a reply. 

With a roll of his shoulders he let his snakeish self take over, reveling in the warmth of the magic rolling through him as his gangling, awkward limbs melted into his body and he reared upwards, six feet and two inches of sinuous red and black. It always felt nice, and he hissed with the pleasure of it, coiling and uncoiling himself, stretching out a bit to show off the gloss of his scales.

He’d wanted to impress Azra, but it didn’t have quite that effect. Instead, the poor bastard was scrabbling away from him, almost falling over the chair behind him, all admiration vanished and replaced with a look of open fear. Immediately Crowley pulled himself back into his more usual shape, and reached out a calming hand.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me, what’s the matter?”

Azra swallowed hard. He was trembling. “I’m so sorry. It’s just you were very big, and I thought you might not know me. I wasn’t sure if it was safe.”

“Oh, it’s not… it’s not like that, for us.” Crowley could’ve slapped himself. “I can turn whenever I want to, and it’s still me on the inside. It doesn’t change who I am. Fuck, Azra, I’m sorry, I should’ve realised.”

“Oh, said Azra wistfully, his shoulders drooping as he began to calm down. 

“I’m so sorry, Azra.”

Azra gave him a sad smile, patting himself on the chest as if to calm a racing heartbeat. He climbed back up into the armchair beside his desk and reclaimed his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in its glass.

“It’s all right, I understand. It sounds quite nice, actually. Not all bad, being you.”

“Yeah, not worth it. Lonely,” muttered Crowley. He was a fool, a damned buffoon. Azra would never want to see him again.

“Less so from now on, perhaps,” said Azra, as cheerfully as if the past five minutes had never happened. “I know we can’t be anything more, but I should like us to be friends, Crowley. I’d like that very much. Would you?”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Azra appeared to be blushing again. 

Crowley raised his glass. “Yeah, then. I’ll drink to that. So long as we can steer clear of blood, spit and come, eh?”

As he spoke, he watched Azra’s pupils dilate, the pale blue eyes suddenly ink-dark, and his mouth falling open just a little. The tip of a pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.

“Yes,” said Azra breathlessly. “Quite so.”

\--

“Ooh, isn’t he handsome!” cooed an unfamiliar voice, and Crowley scrabbled instinctively for his sunglasses before opening his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he’d passed out, but it appeared he was still in the back room of the bookshop, under a snug tartan blanket, and judging by the sunbeams streaming through the doorway to the shop, it was definitely daylight already.

There was a lady leaning over him with hair even redder than his own, extremely pink lipstick, and at least two layers of false eyelashes. She smiled winningly. 

“Did I wake you, dear? I am sorry,” she said, not bothering to sound in the least sincere. “I’m Madame Tracy, Professional Conduit to the Spirit World, I draw aside the veil on Thursdays, not that I should imagine you’ll be requiring my services in that, or any other sort of matter, to be quite honest, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Whuh?” said Crowley, pushing himself up to sitting.

There was no sign of Azra. There was another, taller woman standing beside Madame Tracy, young and pretty with long dark hair lose about her shoulders and Harry Potter glasses. She at least looked a little bit shamefaced at having woken him. There was something off about her, he noticed, as if she was a bit fuzzy around the edges. 

Further back behind them both was a perfectly ordinary child and there was _definitely_ something off about him. It was hard to even look at him for more than a second or two, as if Crowley’s attention was being gently forced elsewhere every time he tried it.

“I’m Anathema Device,” said the second woman, reaching out to shake Crowley’s hand. “This is my apprentice, Adam. We’re witches.”

“Ladies, ladies!” That voice was much more familiar, and Azra rounded the corner of a bookshelf, barrelling into the room in a clear panic, with his hands flapping in distress. “Do please give my guest some privacy!”

“Oh, we were just having a look,” sniffed Tracy, and winked at Crowley. “Mr Fell’s told us all about you.”

“Has he,” said Crowley, more perturbed than ever, and pressing back into the farthest corner of the sofa. It didn’t look as though the sunlight was likely to reach him over here, but he didn’t like being in such proximity to it one bit. 

“I insist!” snapped Azra, ushering the three of them desperately out of the back room. “Mr Crowley was sleeping! I really must ask you to leave him alone!”

With Anathema’s help, the three witches shuffled out of the cramped space and back out onto the shop floor.

“You’ve told them all about me?”

“Of course I haven’t. I’ve barely mentioned you, I’m sure.” Azra took out a pocket handkerchief, of all things, and mopped his brow delicately.

From the main room, Tracy called out, “I’d say he’s talked about nothing else for the past fortnight, dearie!” and someone, probably Anathema, shushed her loudly.

“Excuse me,” said Azra, shutting the door firmly and lowering his voice. “I certainly haven’t mentioned anything personal, at least. I pride myself I can be reasonably discreet when necessary.”

“Fair enough,” muttered Crowley, who was relieved to hear it. “What’s their deal?”

Azra sat down at his desk again, although there was plenty of room on the sofa. He looked a bit pale and tired, but was still smiling. It was a very pretty smile, thought Crowley ruefully.

“Regulars, I’m afraid, from the local Coven. Tracy is a medium, as she mentioned, whereas poor dear Ana is actually possessed. Every so often she gets taken over by the spirit of Agnes, a 16th Century ancestor of hers.”

“And the kid?”

“Oh, Adam! Yes, well, who knows. There’s certainly something about them, isn’t there? Secretly, that’s what the other two have been researching recently, I believe. They drop in every few days for a cup of tea and a chat, to refer to my personal collection or to order books in as needed. I’m ever so sorry that they disturbed you, and I’m really quite dreadfully sorry I didn’t wake you in time to get home. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart.”

Peaceful wasn’t a word Crowley naturally associated with himself, but he did feel unreasonably well rested for having spent his night on a stranger’s furniture. Luckily enough, since Azra was right. He couldn’t go home yet.

“All right,” sighed Crowley, pulling the blanket over himself again and rolling over. “Wake me when it’s dark.”

\--

Dinner happened again that night, since it was on Crowley’s way home anyway, at a well-hidden Italian place where Azra was greeted like an old friend and the tiramisu was served in something the size of a soup tureen. It was just as delightful as the night before, although Crowley refused the offer of a nightcap this time. It was all very well for him to be nocturnal, but Azra was looking increasingly worn out. He yawned like a puppy, thought Crowley, because of course he bloody did.

“I’ll see you around,” said Crowley, digging out the phone from his back pocket with elaborate nonchalance. “Could give you my number. If you like.”

“Oh, yes!” Azra patted himself down and pulled out from inside his jacket, not a phone, but a notebook and a stub of pencil. “I only have a landline, I’m afraid, but yes, let’s.”

It was hard to imagine that Crowley must be at least a century older than Azra when the useless luddite didn’t even have a mobile phone. It was probably a rotary dial, with a curly cable and everything. Crowley had to grit his teeth against the soppy smile fighting to break out on his face.

Numbers exchanged, he headed home, set an alarm on his phone for three day’s time, and named it “DO NOT CALL BEFORE THIS, I MEAN IT”.

\--

The first night was fine. Crowley had been meaning to re-pot a few orchids, and that wasn’t a small job. He didn’t care what Azra Fell was doing. He definitely didn’t wonder if Azra was asleep, or dreaming, or start wondering what he wore to bed. 

Nope. None of that.

\--

On the second night his phone rang while Crowley was giving his tiger lilies a stern talking-to, and he scrambled to answer it, almost falling over himself in his haste to get to the study. 

It lay innocently on his desk, vibrating gently across the marble surface, and the Caller ID read “Hastur” over a picture of Pepe the Frog. 

“Fuck,” snarled Crowley, and stomped back to his plants without picking up. 

It was 4am, for fuck’s sake, of course Azra wouldn’t be calling at such a stupid hour. No-one would be awake except insomniacs, vampires, and maybe final year students. Possibly ravers. Well, anyway, stupid people, thought Crowley glumly.

From the other room he heard his phone make the voicemail pinging sound, and snorted. Hastur should know by now that Crowley had never listened to a message in his entire existence. 

\--

On the third night, at 8.13pm exactly (a plausibly random time), Crowley took a deep breath and punched in Azra’s number. It was answered on the first ring. 

“How funny!” exclaimed Azra, sounding flustered. “I was just about to call you myself!”

Within half an hour Crowley was watching him go into raptures over some crepes. It was only their third meal together, and it couldn’t be more than a few weeks since they had first met under less than auspicious circumstances, and yet already Crowley found himself making a mental note of what foods Azra liked and where they might go next. It wasn’t as if they were dating, either. They were both cursed enough, he didn’t even want to think about what the combination of Werewolf and Vampire might do to someone.

It would be nice if they were dating, though, he thought, watching Azra surreptitiously lick an errant smear of cream from his finger, and wondering if he’d make that kind of face when…

...no. Not thinking about that.

“Oh, goodness, I needed that,” said Azra, dabbing at his lips one more time. “That was scrumptious.”

Crowley frowned. There was something in the way Azra had spoken that he didn’t like. “Bad day?”

“Mustn’t grumble,” shrugged Azra. He flashed one of his sweetly bewitching smiles. “I should only bore you if I went into it all. Now then, what are you in the mood for next?”

Crowley only knew one answer to that question that he could reasonably say out loud. “Alcohol,” he announced. “Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

\--

A few hours later, back at the bookshop, Crowley was pouring out another of Azra’s bottles of extremely good merlot and was pretty impressed with himself for getting most of it into the glass. So far the conversation had covered gorillas, the nature of Good and Evil, and (relatedly) the absolute bastard horror that was the M25, but Crowley was still curious.

“So what, exactly, happened today? Come on, out with it.”

Azra was sitting in his usual armchair, significantly more slumped than was his usual posture. He drew a hand down his face, pulling the skin into a brief mask of horror, and took another slug of his wine.

“Oh, very well. If you must know, it was Gabriel. Ghastly fellow. Although the rest of them are almost as bad. They actually came into my shop!”

Crowley wagged his head in sympathy. How very dare they, indeed. 

“Who’s Gabriel?”

“Pack leader,” said Azra gloomily, surrounding the words with wobbly air quotes. “Took over a while ago, wants us all to high-tail it off to America, of all places. I told him, I’m a Fell, I have a responsibility to this shop. I can’t just go dishob… not doing what my old dad wanted. It was my grandfather’s before him, it’s terribly important. We’re a landmark.”

Crowley frowned, attempting some mathematics in his head that he was vastly too drunk for. “I thought this place was about two hundred years old?”

“Thereabouts, yes. People… in my position, live a bit longer than humans. Got bitten when I was just a young stripling, and I think I’m about 97 by now. I’ve rather lost count.”

Interesting, thought Crowley. Azra didn’t look much more than a well-kept late 40’s, and it was a relief to find that the age gap wasn’t quite as bad as imagined. Not that it mattered, given that they were just friends, of course. Friends could be any age. Perfectly normal. He stared at a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum on the shelf beside him and tried to remember what they’d been talking about.

“America, though. What’s he want you going off there for?”

“Ah, well, that’s where Gabriel is from, originally. He’s being very insistent, but I can’t say I’m persuaded. It isn’t even as though I was meant to be turned. I’ll never really fit in.”

“I know that feeling,” said Crowley. “Same here, as it happens. Was meant to be dinner, managed to fight the bugger off, ran away and woke up a week later eternally cursed.”

Azra regarded him with bleary-eyed sympathy, nodding along to every word with such vehemence the wine slopped dangerously in his glass. He looked close to crying. “We really do have a lot in common, my dear. Isn’t it just too beastly for words?”

“Yeah,” sighed Crowley. “Can we talk about something else?”

\--

The hangover from that one was a doozy. It was a full night and a half before they met up again, and Crowley suggested a walk in the park. It seemed like it might be safer.

It was a clear night, the sort that had probably seen a magnificent sunset, which was one of many things Crowley missed about being human. You made do with what you could get, however, and as a result he’d spent a fair bit of the past century studying astronomy, becoming increasingly fascinated as the available technology improved in leaps and bounds. 

He spent a gratifying few hours pointing out the constellations to Azra, and watching the wonder on the other’s face as he gazed upwards. It was fair to say Crowley was feeling a bit starry-eyed himself. He had to remind himself that Azra would have a bookshop to open in the morning, and they couldn’t stay out all night.

The point was, already he couldn’t imagine his life without Azra Fell in it. And still Azra’s next request managed to take him entirely by surprise.

“I was wondering if I might ask you something,” began Azra hesitantly, and Crowley merely raised his eyebrows. The list of things Azra could ask for that Crowley would refuse was probably already small enough to be written on the head of a pin.

“Looking at all these stars, well… I assume you know it’s a full moon at the end of the week. I’d be so grateful if I could perhaps stay with you for it?” asked Azra hesitantly. “Since I didn’t manage things too terribly well last time. You took very good care of me, I know, and I would find it a great weight off my mind.”

“With me?” asked Crowley, forgetting to blink. “I mean, yes, of course, yes, with me, not a problem. Sure. What day? Whenever is fine, any day is fine.”

“It would be Friday, if you’re certain you aren’t busy.” Azra was smiling, his lips slightly pursed, as if he was very pleased and trying not to show how much. “You’re so kind. I shall have to arrive a little before nightfall, I’m afraid - perhaps eight o’clock?”

“Can do, definitely. Did you need me to, uh, make any preparations?” The words _“dog food”_ were on his tongue and he managed, thank fuck, to hold them back.

“I shouldn’t think so?” said Azra, fiddling with his bow-tie and beginning to look distressed. “Just, whatever happened last time, I suppose. Although I shall bring some spare clothes in case. It can be quite… sudden, I’m afraid. I do hope I’m not imposing.”

Crowley shook his head, and they continued their stroll through the empty, starlit park, chatting away as if they had known one another for years, but careful never to touch, just in case. Something warm and soft bloomed in his chest at the thought of how Azra trusted him. It was deeply inconvenient.


End file.
